I know that everything Hashem does is good, but sometimes, it’s literally impossible to see it
I dream of ballet. There’s a stage, a beautiful empty stage, wooden floors just waiting for the swish swish of satin ballet slippers. I wait in the wings, slippers tightly laced, hair wound in a high bun, heart fluttering, and then it’s my cue. Music, glorious music, swells up, it fills the hall, the stage, the room. And I soar on it, I ride its waves as I leap and bound, spin and turn. I see my family, Atara, Shayna, as I race by, but I don’t stop, I won’t stop. Because how can I give up, even for a moment, my chance to fly?
I wake up with a wet pillow and the taste of blood in my mouth. I’d bitten the inside of my cheek, probably while I was landing my leap. I laugh dryly, the sound echoes around my room.
It had been eerily real.
And so was my pain.
****
I knew we would win the dance-off. I high-five a beaming Atara, and dry my hand quickly on my skirt, because hers is really sweaty. But hey, that’s what you get when you dance your heart out.
“Chametz, chametz, cookies and cream! We’re gonna cheer for the other team!” the girls are chanting; I smile and accept compliments on the amazing costumes. The girls look amazing and I find it hard to believe that I’m the one who outfitted them. Kay, me and the other sewing girls, but you know, mostly me.
This one’s in print. Some of our best stories live in the magazine — subscribe to get Mishpacha every week.
